


burning in the dark fires of ambivalence

by crookedspoon



Series: Feed Me, Also, River God [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: holly_poly, F/M, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft finds a secret Sherlock keeps from him, Irene receives an unexpected invitation, and Sherlock pays a visit to someone far away from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burning in the dark fires of ambivalence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Settiai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Settiai/gifts).



[i. impulse]

Mycroft dabbed at his forehead with a pocket square. A few more moments of silence were all he needed to feel grounded and composed again, able to ignore the blood thrumming through his veins, the hairs stirring against the fabric of his suit, the sweat trickling down his back. His muscles were slowly beginning to release tension.

He had been staving off a headache all evening, made worse in part by the stagnant and breathless quality of the room and the broken trust between them. Sherlock seemed not to care much about mending fences, or even see the need to – their relationship had a history of rough patches and festering resentments, but nothing so permanently damaging as to blind them to what they shared.

At least, Mycroft let himself not be blinded. Knowing fully well what a liability his brother was, he knew certain boundaries had to be maintained. Loyalties – to his country as well as to his brother – were important to him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, based which parts of their history to dwell on and which to ignore on his current mood and objective. 

Tonight he had chosen to atone for his mistakes of the recent past – or so he would like Mycroft to believe. It was unlike Sherlock to admit he had been careless, had let himself be manipulated and used. The gravity of his miscalculations, however, was now palpable even to him.

He did not take the insult to his pride well.

"I can make it up to you," he had said before snaking his tongue into Mycroft's mouth. He'd played with the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat as if waiting for permission to open them. "If you let me."

Mycroft had let him, in part because he needed the distraction, in part because Sherlock did. It would take some time to rebuild trust between them. These silent little trysts were all they managed at this time.

Sherlock had just started the shower when a short buzzing interrupted Mycroft's thoughts. It sounded like a mobile phone on vibrate and came from one of the drawers. Sherlock had only one phone registered under his name and Mycroft had seen him slip it into his coat pocket earlier. This had to be a different one then. Curious. What was his brother hiding?

Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would respect his brother's privacy enough not to rifle through his undergarments for messages that might as well be enquiries from potential clients. But in light of recent events, his little brother warranted close monitoring in order to prevent other disasters from brewing. The existence of a phone Mycroft had no knowledge of was proof enough.

Mycroft found it hidden in a secret compartment in the bottom drawer. There were other documents stashed as well: fake IDs, passports and other forged papers, not all of them issued by Mycroft's men.

The phone was nondescript, a somewhat older flip model, with a lack of scuff marks that made it look almost new. Rarely used, then. The screen informed him of one new message received, but the number was not one Mycroft recognised. Every other week, it seemed, Sherlock got another message, each from a different number. Their content, however, sounded similar enough to suggest only one sender. 

Someone who went to this much trouble to conceal his identity wasn't good news. 

Mycroft felt his breach of confidentiality was thus validated.

Sherlock apparently did not use the phone to correspond with this person, or else he deleted his own mails again; the Sent folder was empty, and no calls were registered.

Mycroft memorised the phone's number and the content of the last message before deleting it. If Sherlock checked the phone and found this message marked as read, he would suspect Mycroft. He tasked Anthea with finding out the channels this message had been sent through and, if possible, to try and replicate them. The timestamp would be inaccurate, but at least the phone would alert Sherlock of a new message once more.

Picking up the topmost passport, Mycroft thumbed through it, not entirely sure what he was hoping to find. Perhaps the stamps would be able to shed some light on his travels and why he would need a fake identity for them. He recognised stamps from Belarus and India, stickers from Japan, nothing much out of the ordinary, except for one thing that did catch his eye. The ink was a faded green, making it near impossible to distinguish from the passport's paper, but what Mycroft could make out was part of the date it was issued: JAN 2011.

Mycroft put everything back where it belonged, a cold feeling creeping up on him. Could his brother have travelled to Pakistan the month Miss Adler was executed? How would he have known? Anthea would have to check their databases for flight information on this passport.

In the bathroom, Sherlock turned off the water. Mycroft prepared himself to leave. With their relationship as strained as it was now, Sherlock would not expect him to wait around much longer as it was.

Which served his purpose rather well. He had a mysterious caller to track.

 

[ii. tension]

The evening left her in a strange glow – with a tightness in her shoulders – as she exited the opera house. She found her way back to her hotel room as if in a trance, feeling light-headed and brimming with emotion, still enchanted by the beauty of the performance, unwilling to let go of the otherworldly mood just yet. 

One by one, she divested herself of unnecessary clothing items and accessories, as if she too was performing and every motion deliberate, capable of releasing some of the tension in her spine. She hung up her coat by the door, left her purse in the living room and began to unpin her hair en route to her dressing table.

All day she had felt eyes on her, never mind that a white person drew stares among Asians, same as any minority. Ordinarily, she did not worry about being spotted, but for some reason she had expected men in suits and sunglasses to round every corner, get on every elevator with her, SIGs holstered at their sides and backup on speed-dial. No one would look for her.

She wasn't sure what tipped her off – her life had been uneventful since arriving in the country. But when she spotted a single envelope on her dressing table, addressed to her new identity, Claudine Norton, her suspicions felt justified. She did not await any letters. Certainly not at this hour.

The ivory material was smooth to the touch and too heavy for any of her contacts in this part of the world. They used simpler means of correspondence.

Fear pricked her as she slid a simple, folded card from the envelope. A courteous dinner invitation in big flourishes. Printed, not handwritten. The signature, however, was dried ink. As was the postscript advising her not to follow up on engagements in other parts of the country.

Signed _M_ , nothing more.

She let out a breath of relief. The grave diction, the lack of overly familiar address, yes even the smell of the note pointed towards Mycroft, not Moriarty. She held the card to her nose. Definitely more Blenheim than Boss.

So this was what her sinking feeling had been about. _How did he find her?_

Irene folded the invitation again slowly. _More importantly, what does he want?_ Payback, most likely. She smiled. Far be it from her to deny him the opportunity to clash wits with a formidable enemy. He had been cheated out of a victory last time and likely sought to settle the scores. 

Well then, let him come. If he expected to get out on top this time, she would just have to burst his bubble again. She had known it would come to this sooner or later, and had planned for all eventualities. Staying in touch with Sherlock had been unwise and above all dangerous, because it could – and very likely did – compromise her. Yet it had also been necessary. She owed him.

Sherlock was a fascinating man. He had to be, if she found herself unable to cut ties with him before her debt was repaid. And who could say that of himself?

Yet it was not like she herself had nothing to gain by their continued communication. If she could glean secrets from the boy that would buy her protection, well, she couldn't just let that opportunity slip by now, could she?

 

[iii. impact]

"What have you planned?" Irene asked the moment she laid eyes on Sherlock, lounging at her door, She pulled him inside.

Sherlock straightened his suit jacket. He could feel bewilderment softening his features "I believe the correct phrase would be 'How are you?' or 'Come in', wouldn't it?"

"Your brother met with me earlier," she said as she steered them into the living room area.

"Is that the emergency you summoned me for?" Sherlock sat down on the sofa, while Irene occupied the armchair.

"He knows I'm alive. That is emergency enough in my book."

"What did he want?"

"You don't know already?" Irene arched a perfect eyebrow at him as she fingered the golden necklace encircling her throat. "You did not seem surprised when I mentioned him just now."

"Very little my brother does surprises me anymore. I'm sure he feels the same."

"That I am certain of. He was merely... disappointed, I should say."

"Mhh," Sherlock agreed. "I would think so. He wanted me to believe you were safe in a witness protection programme in the US: instructed John to tell me that lie even after burdening him with the 'truth' – that you had been beheaded by terrorists."

"Oh, but I was." Irene smiled, a secretive little thing, but her eyes spoke of gratitude. "Did John confide all this in you?"

"He told me about the programme. The rest, I read on his face. John can't keep secrets from me."

"Do you think it was deliberate? Your brother telling John about what really happened?"

"It is a game he would play. Letting John in on a secret he has to keep from me, thus creating a bond between them... He knew I would get the message."

"That I am dead, but they do not want to burden you with that knowledge, so you could act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened?"

Sherlock eyed her. "You're not considering his point of view thoroughly." He crossed his legs and settled back against the sofa. "Yes, he wanted me to understand that you were dead. However, that is precisely why I could not act as though everything was fine. If I had, Mycroft would have known something was up, that perhaps I was privy to information he wasn't, and perhaps even that you weren't as dead as he considered you to be."

"And I suppose now you are going to tell me you managed to convince him."

"I did."

"Until now." There was a hint of accusation in her voice.

"Hm, yes. Until now. He must have found the phone. It's the only way he could have gotten to you through me. Unless you had other open channels in England he could have traced."

"No. Yours was the only one."

Sherlock nodded. "What did he want?"

"Information."

"On?"

"'Our mutual acquaintance', as he termed it."

"Ah. Moriarty."

"Yes. Your brother threatened to leak my whereabouts to him if I didn't cooperate."

"And did you?"

She tilted her head to shoot him a look that challenged the sincerity of his question. "Perhaps if he had made me an offer instead." She considered him for a moment. "Really, Sherlock. Here I would have thought you knew me well enough by now to understand that I do not give in easily."

"Of course." Sherlock couldn't help the boyish glee stealing into his voice. "What do you have against him?"

He watched with anticipation as her eyes crinkled and she pulled up her phone. She set it on the table between them.

 _And what if I can't help you?_ Irene's tinny voice crackled through the noise of the recording.

 _I think someone will be very pleased to hear that you're alive and well,_ Mycroft's voice answered.

_Unfortunately for you, Mr Holmes, you can't tell him that._

_Oh?_ Sherlock felt giddy. This was like Christmas!

_Unless of course you'd like your employer to find out what you and your brother do in your free time. I have to say, you're both very creative._

Sherlock's giddiness drained from him like water through a pipe, but he held her gaze, which was narrow, almost catlike. Oh, she thought she got away with the cream, did she?

 _Mere accusations won't get you very far, Miss Adler,_ his brother said evenly, but Sherlock could hear the discomfort bleeding through his words.

 _If it is proof you need, I have more than enough to convince your pru—_ She stopped the recording.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm not judging you."

"I'm not worried."

"Your brother was." Her lips quirked.

Sherlock studied her face. "You have nothing against him."

"What are you willing to bet on it?" No telling signs in her features. Fascinating. "I am not in the habit of bluffing."

"Did you give him what he asked for?"

"Should I have?"

Sherlock looked down, laced his fingers, exhaled. Looked up. "If you want me to have an advantage against him."

Irene stood. For a second, Sherlock thought she would slap him. She might. He straightened his back. 

"Don't," she said, and for the first time that evening, Sherlock thought she might actually mean it. "Don't take him on."

"There's no other way."

"You're going to lose." She wrung her hands and whispered, "He has connections even you and your brother can't match."

"I will do what you did: I will disappear for a while, slip off his radar. He will think he has won. It's perfect."

"It's suicide."

"Yes," he breathed and got to his feet. She looked so small now, almost afraid for him. He grasped her hands to reassure her. "He will think so, too."

She averted her eyes. Tears began glistening in them. Oh, she was good. "You're a fool to think you can outsmart him."

Sherlock shook his head. "I won't be able to do it alone. I'm aware of that."

"What are you suggesting?" Her eyes narrowed, squeezing a single droplet out of each. He tilted her chin up, catching one with his thumb.

"I have a plan, and I will need all the information you have on him..."

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from the poem "The God of Inattention" by Averill Curdy.
> 
> Much love and thanks to my conductor of light [Neurotoxia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neurotoxia/) for her endless patience, insight and hand-holding.


End file.
